Sunday, July 31, 2011

Vacance

Because nothing is more French than getting the hell out of dodge for at least part of the month of August, AH and I will be travelling with Mama and Papa AH to Ireland on the morrow (and I would be lying if I said that I wasn't really excited to meet my new Guinness Overlords).  So for the next week, feel free to switch from wine to whiskey in my honor, and try to stay out of the heat while I try to stay out of the rain!

Thursday, July 28, 2011

The Whisking

Once upon a time AH made the mistake of telling me about his co-worker who whisked his girlfriend away to Paris so that he could propose.  She thought that he was driving her to work, but instead he took her to the airport with a suitcase that her mom had packed and off to the magical land of cheese and wine they went.  And I have not let AH forget this story, much to his chagrin.  So for my 25th birthday, this is what I requested of AH: a good, healthy whisking.  How does one define whisking (I know you're musing to yourself, possibly while stroking your chin thoughtfully)?  It's being swept from your mundane existence off to somewhere romantic and full of adventure by a dashing lover-type.  Being that I am the bossypants in our marriage, and I tend to initiate all planning, I decided that I would settle for "going on a trip that I didn't have to make decisions about." And that is how we found ourselves in Amsterdam.

To answer your next question, no, we did not toke up nor hire a hooker (Although AH and I saw one in a window.  Unless that was just some nice lady who likes to hang out in her window dancing seductively about in a negligee- I don't know her life).  But I did find plenty of other things to keep me entertained:

Our accommodations, for starters.  I have never felt more like a Dutch banker's mistress than I did swanning (a verb cousin to whisking) about that B&B.

Strolling around the beautiful Vondelpark, right next to our B&B. 

I also took many, many pictures of pretty buildings on canals during our brief intervals of good weather.

And gables.  I really liked the gables.

Which is worse, I wonder: semi-sanctioned peeing in various gutters and corners, or attempting to concentrate the public urination into a city square?

Our room at the B&B contained a bunch of classical CDs and this lovely offering.  Guess which one AH and I had a dance party to Friday night?

We spent Saturday morning at the Van Gogh museum.  A truly moving and beautiful experience, it was undoubtedly the highlight of the trip.  And now I know that it's pronounced "Van Gagh" (with a good loogie-hocking sound on the end there), not "Van Go".

Then a great deluge was upon us!  That was fun.

Our wet and soggy canal tour did bring our attention to this establishment which has the honor of being the  largest floating Chinese restaurant in Europe.  Oddly specific, yes, and now AH and I have a new retirement dream: to open an EVEN LARGER (and possibly even more buoyant) Chinese restaurant somewhere on the continent of Europe.  THE GLORY, IT SHALL BE MINE!

AH and I spent Sunday morning at the Heineken Experience.  Housed in the former Heineken brewery, it now serves as one long, kind of expensive Heineken commercial (those pods you see actually show vintage Heineken commercials on the ceilings).  It was pretty slick, though, and by the end AH and I were really looking forward to our two free beers and the privilege of paying homage to our Benevolent Heineken Overlords.

Unfortunately, as our guidebook tactfully stated, "The Dutch are not known for their cuisine." Luckily they do know how to put bacon, cheese and onions on a carb-like substance and stick it in the oven, so the famous Pancake Bakery, at least, was worth the wait.

And the very last thing we stumbled upon before getting on the train back to Paris: footballers playing sand football in the middle of a public square to the sounds of enthusiastic Dutch commentators and thumping Spanish techno.  Sometimes I have to sit back and wonder, how is this my life?

So all in all, a very successful whisking.  Which gives me until AH's birthday in January to figure out how to top it.  I think we'll be taking a pilgrimage to find the largest Indonesian restaurant on wheels.  Wish us luck.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Bastille Day


Sorry I've been negligent about this whole posting thing- last week was pretty crazy with work/French classes, and then I was whisked (more about that verb and all of its glory later) to Amsterdam this past weekend, and now my fabulous in-laws are in town for a visit.  And in the middle of all of that we celebrated Bastille Day as Frenchly as we possibly could.

My day began on a park on the Seine helping my friend Erin with one of her theater camps for children.  Due to our proximity to the Champs-Elysses (where the big parade was), we were treated to the sights of fighter planes and helicopters flying overhead throughout the lesson.  Let me tell you, trying to get twelve children between the ages of three and eight to focus is generally spotty at best; it's nigh impossible with fighter jets swooping overhead every so often.  Erin and I eventually had to admit defeat and decided to play games for the remainder of the lesson.  During a rousing game of "Simon Says," we noticed several soldiers standing a few feet off playing along (nothing like the power rush of telling members of foreign armed forces to "flap your wings and squawk like a chicken").  Turns out they were a pair of delightful fellows on their way to salute the president.  They stopped and took pictures with the children, and even let the kids keep their hats.  Adorable children+French men in uniform=All Good.

My day continued on the Champ de Mars with AH and a few folks from church whiling away our time listening to a concert and picnicking.  We even played our new favorite game of "get the French people to try pretzels with nutella"; while salty and sweet are a classic American combo, to the French the idea of dipping something salty in chocolate would be like us being asked to dip a piece of bacon in chocolate syrup.

Around 10:30, we packed up our blanket and what was left of the food and moved to a prime central location from which to see the fireworks.  Now I had been told that I simply had to see the fireworks display on the Champ de Mars as it was the height of Frenchness.  So imagine my surprise when the fireworks begin right on time (which is most un-French).  The un-Frenchness continues with the music theme for the year: Broadway.  We gazed up a the Eiffel Tower, watching the lovely display, while I quietly sang along to Cats, Singing in the Rain, and Gypsy.  The crowd around me burst into song on two numbers that I was totally unfamiliar with; according to my French friend, it was because they were from French musicals.  For the finale, my friend Mike and I were hedging bets on some Les Mis.  You know what they played instead?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qy6wo2wpT2k

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

The Hat Strikes Again!

This weekend AH and I were delighted to play host to my buddy Matt, owner of this fine specimen,

a friend of mine from high school in Belgium on a business trip.  And to our joy and delight, he brought the hat (an Eiffel Tower picture is so much classier with this in the foreground), also known as the Tackiest Souvenir in Paris. Unbeknownst to us, in addition to being tacky in all three dimensions, this hat also acts as a siren call, a sort of Hat Signal (teehee) if you will, to others of its ilk.  Behold:
"This purse is brought to you by the Paris Chapter of Planned Parenthood (since it hasn't been de-funded), reminding you to wrap any baguettes before they go into your croissant.  Otherwise, you could end up with the worst kind of souvenir of all: the kind that burns."

And...
"FRANCOIS GERARD HAS DONE IT AGAIN!!  After his attempt to use three story kittens to wreak havoc on the Champs de Mars went awry when the kittens were distracted by some laundry lint, Gerard went back to the drawing board.  Hoping to go in a more fearsome direction this time, Gerard decided to unleash towering killer dinosaurs; the mad scientist even outfitted his creation with a camera to record the carnage for his perverse pleasure.  But alas, Gerard was thwarted once again:  after the "Land Before Time" films, dinosaurs have lost all power to frighten, especially when their eyes are half the size of their face.  Gerard was last seen shaking his fist and retreating into his underground lair, mumbling something incoherent about giant wombats."

Thursday, July 7, 2011

So That's...Different, Part III, The Part That Involves Public Urination

Some background:

Being that for some reason people still trust me with their children, I am currently working with a family in the 15th with two little boys, the youngest of whom is three.  Now, I don't know if you've ever worked with three-year-olds, but let's just say that they're not known for their ability to delay gratification:  if they want something, they want it now, and if they don't get it, they are certain they are going to implode on the spot.  Having worked with my fair share of the under four feet set, I can usually defuse these situations with a soothing voice, loving manner and the diplomacy of a hostage negotiator.  And sometimes bribes.  But of course, with my little Francophones, all my best tools lay useless in their little pink, sparkly toolbox (it's imaginary, so it might as well be pretty).  Rather than, "OK, I know you want to play longer in the park with your friends, but your mother will be home soon and she'd really like to see you and gosh, wouldn't you like some of that awesome pastry I saw sitting in your kitchen?," all I got is, "We go home now."  Which, you know, goes over like gangbusters with anybody, but especially with small children.

So when in the midst of a tantrum, I will admit that, since I usually have no idea what the screaming is concerning, I've begun resorting to a technique first espoused by the brilliant Wanda Sykes wherein I mentally translate the cries of my young to wails over injustices of a more grown-up nature.  Instead of, "CINQ MINUTE PLUS, CINQ MINUTE PLUS!", I hear, "I can't believe the Supreme Court ruled in favor of Walmart!  And seriously, Ohio, what is with the heartbeat bill?!?".  This tends to put me in a slightly more charitable mood.

And now to today's adventure.  Bringing the boys home from day care, the youngest was convinced (as he is most days) that he is entitled to a treat from the boulangerie before he goes home for his bath.  Being that I don't have money for this, we resume our fascinating and cardiovascularly stimulating dance of me trying to drag him home without A) causing any more discomfort or distress to him than he's already experiencing due to the crying and shrieking in the heat or B) having French social services called on me because the sheer scale of these tantrums would suggest that I am dragging this child home to make him watch while I shoot the family dog.

In the middle of the shrieking, I discern words that I learned the meaning of very quickly in the line of duty working with Francophone children: "J'ai envie de faire pipi!".  I immediately begin assessing how best to handle this:  the house isn't far, but his legs are little.  It would be faster if I pick him up and carry him, but then I risk getting peed on (a fate that I avoid when I can).  Just as I'm verging on panic, my little sugar-fiend's older brother suggests going in the street.  I am unsure about this; I mean, I know people here do it (I have seen it far too often), but is it technically allowed?  And I am going to go to jail for pulling this child's pants down in the middle of the street?  At this point, two women, alerted by sugar-fiend's cries (because really, I'm surprised Portugal didn't hear them), rush out of a building to assure me that, indeed, he can pee in the street.  Weighing my American sensibilities versus the distress of this child, I decide that his need is clearly greater than my prudishness, and so down the pants go.  Pants go back up, and on our ever-so-slightly-less-than-merrily way we go.

My boss, the boy's mother, has given me a few euros to take the boys to the boulangerie after day care tomorrow.  I'm hoping that means we can make it the few blocks from the day center to the apartment without anyone having to whip it out.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Le Quatre de Juillet

This is how out of touch I am: a state-side friend was posting on facebook about how psyched he was for the three-day weekend, and I assumed it was Memorial Day.  I even went so far as to respond thusly to an invitation to an outdoor gathering Monday from an American friend: "Oh, for Memorial day?".  Not sure I'm ever going to live that one down.

And so Monday night, despite the lack of fireworks and cheap beer (we were hanging out in the church courtyard- not the place to get trashed on Budweiser), we managed to have a patriotic enough time.  My buddy Mike brought the closest approximation to s'mores ingredients that he could find (chocolate cookies and pink marshmallows) and a soundtrack full of Americana: Tom Petty, Billy Joel and, most importantly, Lee Greenwood singing "Proud to Be an American" (and since that song is now stuck  in your head, let me say "you're welcome").  It being the fourth and all, I even sprang for a casserole dish at the Monoprix (our kitchen doesn't come that furnished, apparently) and sacrificed one of my treasured cans of Dixie Chili to make Dixie Chili dip.  Man, that stuff is addictive; even though I had to swap out the generic orange cheese for emmental, most of the pan was still consumed by three people.  And it tasted fantastic thusly:


I consider this to be an apt demonstration of the cultural melding that I am experiencing here:  Dixie Chili dip on top of a hot dog in a baguette bought at the Eiffel Tower (by AH, bless his heart).  Although if I keep melding cultures like this, I'm likely to die of a heart attack before I reach the age of 30.

On the way home, my belly full of salty anguish and torment, I was given a fantastic Fourth of July gift by the Invalides metro station:


In America, we (usually) know when to let terrible bands fade into obscurity, whereas people here are suffering some serious karmic come-uppance and thus are being subjected to the likes of Limp Bizkit (seriously, when was the last time I even uttered or wrote those words?  And how long until Fred Durst pulls an Axel Rose and get face-lifted beyond recognition?).  

Proud to Be an American, indeed.